Heritage
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The heritage of the sin'dorei was forged in blood and fire. They were not the quel'dorei any longer. Yet the Second War was still in the living memory of many sons and daughters of Quel'Thalas. Once, those they called enemies, had been allies.


**Heritage**

War made for strange bedfellows.

It had been Faralen Summerbloom that had first coined that phrase, back in the Troll Wars over 7000 years ago. Beren Springwind had never considered himself the most learned of elves, but even he knew of the origins of the phrase. At the time, Quel'Thalas and the human empire of Arathor had wanted nothing to do with each other, but war with the forest trolls had forced fate's hand. War had brought the high elves and humans together. The alliance between the two had saved Quel'Thalas, and given the humans the knowledge of magic. Most considered it to be a figurative saying, a statement that war had a habit of drawing previously distant peoples together.

Some suggested however, that the warrior's words were meant to be taken literally. That war literally did make strange bedfellows, as two races with the same basic needs were thrown together, and that in the wake of war, such needs had to be met. Certainly, history recorded that it was not long after the final battles of that war that the first half elves were born.

For his copper, Beren only put stock in the first option. He wasn't a learned man, but he had learned from history, and Faralen's words, over 7000 years later, had been proven true. In the Second War, Anasterian Sunstrider had finally made good on his oath of allegiance to the descendants of Arathor, but only after the Horde had ravaged the elven kingdom. A war that had, for the first time, had human, elf, dwarf, and gnome, fighting on the same side, himself included. Now, less than four decades after that, the bed had changed its sheets. More conflicts than even he could count. A change of name from quel'dorei to sin'dorei. Now, he was in the forests of Quel'Thalas again, mainly among his own kind, but not bereft of those he had once called enemies. Orcs. Trolls. Undead. Lying in wait for those that in his own lifetime, he had once called allies.

The Alliance bore its namesake. That didn't mean it was adept at keeping those alliances.

"You look like you need to piss."

He grunted.

"Seriously, you can piss if you want."

"I don't need to piss."

"You sure? Because your face suggests you need to piss."

"Sun's name Mereen, I don't need to piss!"

He spun around to face his superior. His words were loud, and more than one of the cadre gave the pair a look. Frowning, he tried to ignore them. This was his home. He was a blood elf, in which the blood of the Highborne flowed. He shouldn't demean himself by discussing such basic bodily functions, and nor should Mereen.

"Alright, then, what is it? Armour's too tight?"

He grunted and turned his gaze back to the road.

"How long has it been since you wore that anyway?"

"Since the Second War."

"Hmm. I can tell."

He looked back at her. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"No," Mereen said. She turned away and drew out her knife, spinning it between her fingers.

 _Liar._

He wouldn't have been here in normal circumstances. The Second War had been his first conflict, and thanks to an ogre's sword, almost his last. He would walk, the healers had told him, even as he lied screaming at the base of Blackrock Spire. He'd have trouble walking for the rest of his life, but he'd live, and that was more than they could say for the tens of thousands who'd perished in the vpmg;ovy. Ergo, he hadn't fought when the Lich King had ravaged his homeland. He'd hidden. When Silvermoon had been rebuilt, he'd volunteered for the city guard, even if he could barely run. When his people had marched to war time and time again, he'd given his blessings, but had never joined the fray. But now…?

 _War makes for strange bedfellows._

Now, to quote another saying (this time from a human whose name he couldn't recall), desperate times called for desperate measures.

"You know," Mereen said. "If the war ended today, do you think we'd be the first to be told? Or the last?"

He didn't say anything. He trusted Mereen – her record in all the wars he'd missed spoke for itself.

"Beren?"

But she just wouldn't stop talking. This cadre she led, of blood elves, orcs, trolls, and Forsaken trusted her, but Light damn it, she just wouldn't shut up.

"Hello?"

He looked at her. "First, I hope."

"Hmm." She put a finger to her lips, her eyes twinkling. "I think last."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, you've heard about what's happening to the south, haven't you?"

"Pretty much everything is 'south' from here."

"Very funny. But I meant Kul Tiras and Zandalar. Some kind of 'allies grab,' if you will."

"I've heard," he murmured. He returned his gaze to the road. The summer sun (of course it was summer, you would only make war if it was summer) shone through the branches and trees, giving Quel'Thalas a sense of serenity that Beren knew to be a lie. "Do you think it'll make a difference?"

"Possibly. If history has taught us anything, it's that if the Horde gets a new race or ally, so does the Alliance and vice versa." She snorted. "Fate, it seems, always wants to balance the scales. Like it's playing some kind of eternal game."

"I don't believe in fate," Beren murmured.

"Really? Then what do you believe?"

"That this war is foolish. That enough people have died already. That it'll result in nothing but mutual destruction and…what?"

Mereen was looking at him like he'd said he found her mother attractive. Of course, she was a rotting corpse thanks to Arthas, but same principle he supposed.

"What?" he asked.

She nodded at her cadre. "Look at him."

Beren looked. "Who?"

"Him. Andrew Burroughs."

"The undead guy?"

"Yes, the undead guy. The one who was there when Capital City fell."

Beren could see where this was going.

"Tell _him_ we should stop," Mereen said. "Go on."

Beren sighed. "Mereen-"

"We're the last bastion of the Horde on this continent. The Alliance may be focusing its efforts to the south, but they'll want to move against us as well."

"I know why we're here, Mereen."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. And you know why?" He nodded at one of the orcs. "Because I've done this before."

Mereen didn't say anything. He suspected that she too, understood that war made for strange bedfellows. Only difference was her mother had never lived to see the changing of the sheets, and her father, thanks to Marshal Garithos, had been smothered in them.

"You can still shoot of course?" Mereen asked.

He nodded, rubbing his right leg. "I can move a bit. But my aim hasn't deteriorated."

"Hmm. Well, I trust Lor'themar. He sends you to me, I'll use you, and…" She trailed off, and Beren didn't blame her.

He heard them coming. Men. Horses. Alliance.

Mereen made a signal to her cadre, the lot of them going to ground. Beren, fighting the pain shooting through his leg, did so as well. It would be simple, he told himself. Mereen had explained the general tactics – elves would shoot, rest of her crew would engage in physical combat if it called for it. Which it wouldn't, he told himself. Or rather, hoped.

"There they are," Mereen whispered.

Beren followed her gaze – a column, fifteen strong, were making their way up the paths. Knights, accompanied by foot soldiers, human and dwarf alike. One knight carried the banner of Stormwind, while one of the dwarves carried the standard of Ironforge. He winced – he'd seen those banners before. Remembered, in these very forests, when he'd fought under them. When the banner of Quel'Thalas had been a different hue.

"Fifteen souls," Mereen said. She glanced at her cadre. "Twenty of us."

Beren bit his lip.

"They that confident?" she whispered. "Or that stupid?"

Beren wasn't sure. On the one hand, the soldiers coming down the path didn't strike him as being all that alert. On the other, their shields and armour were strong, especially that of the dwarves. Seeing their full plate armour, he was again reminded of the Second War. He'd seen orcs break against lines of dwarven warriors like water against a dam.

Mereen made signals with her hands. The archers knocked their arrows. The others wielded everything from sword, to axe, to spear. They were going to attack. And none looked like they regretted it. Sighing, Beren followed suit.

"Don't disappoint me," Mereen whispered.

He didn't say anything. He knew what was about to happen. And the look in Mereen's eyes told him that anything he said was things that she wasn't going to listen to. He figured that in the next few minutes, he'd either be dead, or standing among the dead. He drew back his arrow…

"Loose!" Mereen yelled.

And did so.

It was the horses that went down first. It was easier for the archers to find gaps in their armour. He heard the creature scream in fear and pain as it fell down. Saw it crush one of the footmen beside it. He saw one of the soldiers go to help his comrade, only to end up with an arrow in the back of his neck.

"Loose!"

More arrows came. The Alliance soldiers formed a shield wall.

"Loose!"

One fell. Only one.

"Loose!"

The Alliance charged. He glanced at Mereen.

"Engage!"

The others of her cadre charged forward. They had the advantage of height, numbers, and raw strength. Orcs, trolls, and Forsaken charged into the wall of advancing steel. The waters broke against the dam. The dam began to crumble.

"Loose!"

Beren fired. He never saw the eyes of the man he killed.

"Loose!"

Nor the eyes of the dwarf who found an arrow in his chest…and still found the strength to rip it out, swing his axe, and strip Borok of a leg.

It was a bloodbath, with the blood coming out of two faucets, staining the tub to the extent that Beren couldn't tell it apart. He saw C'vall plunge his spear into one of the footmen, plunging it down again and again until the man stopped spasming. He saw one of the knights swing his sword, removing Andrew's head from his shoulders. He saw Grigmor break the neck of one of his foes, before being tackled to the ground by a pair of footmen, before a dwarf cut the orc's throat.

And through it all, Beren kept firing. His aim was not so good to take a life with each loosing of the arrow, let alone hit his target. But already, he knew his hands were stained. Just as he knew that for the Alliance, this battle (no, skirmish, he reminded himself – the smell of blood had not robbed him of perspective) had been lost. The Horde had the advantage of numbers, surprise, and position. And as the last few survivours staggered back, desperate to maintain a sense of cohesion, he could see they knew it as well.

"Kill them! Kill them!"

Mereen walked forward, casting her bow aside and drawing out her sword. He hobbled after her.

"Mereen…"

One of the footmen, armed only with his spear, charged at her. She spun, dodging the blow, and cut into his leg. He fell. He screamed as her sword penetrated his flesh.

The rest of her cadre joined the attack, overwhelming the last few of the enemy. He reached Mereen, who stood there. Transfixed.

"That's enough," he whispered.

There were cries. Pleads. Roars of pain and hatred from both sides.

"That's enough," he repeated, this time more forcefully.

The steel kept finding flesh. The blood kept flowing. As it had in this land so many times before.

" **That's enough!"**

Somehow, the cadre actually heard him. Eyes, of all races turned to him. Or at least, the eyes of the living, and the undead. The eyes that turned to Mereen, who raised her hand, before looking at Beren.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Are you?" she whispered.

He hobbled over, threading his way between the bodies.

 _I know that smell._

Blood smelt the same he reflected, regardless of who shed it. The cadre parted ways for him to see the last of the fallen – for now, at least, they were willing to give him authority. He stared at the bodies. He could tell which body parts belonged to which enemy, he supposed.

"Bas…tard…"

He blinked. A dwarf. Still alive.

"Mereen?" He looked down at the dying warrior. An arrow jutted out from his upper chest, and an axe had carved into his stomach. Dwarves were tough. Their armour was tough. But bereft of any priest or healer, Beren knew he'd die before any aid arrived, even if Quel'Thalas had been so inclined to give it.

"Here," Beren said. He took off the dwarf's helmet. He got a globule of spit and blood as thanks.

"Charming," Mereen said, having finally arrived. He watched her kneel down, drawing out her knife. "What do you know, dwarf?"

He said nothing.

"Listen, you're dead either way. You just get to decide how fast that takes. So why are you here?"

He said nothing.

"Are there more of you?"

He said nothing.

"Answer me!" She kicked him in the stomach, and he howled. Beren looked aside. So did other cadre members.

"Beren."

He kept looking away.

"Beren, look at this."

He managed to. And stared, as he saw the dwarf pointing at him.

"You…" the dwarf whispered. "Before…"

"Before?" Mereen looked at him. "You know him?"

Beren shook his head.

"Second…War…" the dwarf rasped. "Here…"

 _Oh Light…_ Beren knelt down, even as his leg protested. He met the dwarf's gaze with his own. Both centuries old. Both seeing the same world. Both seeing the face of the enemy.

"Here…"

"I was here," Beren said. "Long ago. Before…" He sighed. "Before things changed."

"Know…" The dwarf reached forward. Mereen tensed, but Beren let him tap his armour. "Old…armour…different…banner…"

"Different banner, different war," Beren said. "I think you know the saying."

"Fought…here…" the dwarf whispered. "Before…" He smiled, blood pouring out of his mouth. "Good war…then…"

And then he died.

Beren managed to get to his feet. The pain in his leg wasn't as bad this time. Most of his pain was in his chest.

"Beren?" Mereen asked.

A chest covered by armour, forged in a different time, for a different, yet all too similar, purpose.

"Beren?" Mereen asked again. "What did he mean?"

He sighed, and looked at her cadre. Blood elf. Orc. Troll. Undead. United as the times and world dictated. Looked at them all, before finally meeting the gaze of his commander. Of the future.

"Well?" she asked. "What was he talking about?"

Beren sighed. "History." He turned his gaze to the south. To the direction of the enemy. Of steel and sorrow, and all the fortunes of war. "History."

"History?"

"History," Beren said, before turning to face her again. "Or rather the truth of it."

"Truth?"

"The truth…that war makes strange bedfellows." He looked at the forest. Wondrous, eternal Quel'Thalas, twice scarred already. Perhaps fated for a third time. He shifted his gaze to Mereen.

"Sometimes, I think that's the only truth there is."

* * *

 _A/N_

 _Late as I am to the party with this, the idea for this oneshot came from the introduction of heritage armour. Which led me to ask, what heritage do blood elves have exactly? In the timeline, you can't go that far back with the blood elves before you enter high elf history, and considering the racial divide between them, they probably wouldn't want much of that._

 _It also touches on another issue that I don't think canon has ever really explored that much - how does the average blood elf feel about being allied with the Horde? I mean, fair enough, Garithos gave the blood elves plenty of reason to hate the Alliance, but within many of their lifetimes, they were fighting with the Alliance against the Horde. I don't think the idea of blood elves in the Horde is a bad idea, but IMO, it's never been a fully explored one. Least not in the context of the Second War._

 _Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
